Under the Shock
by HRFan
Summary: I have no idea what I am doing with this one...HR of course  what else really? , but other than that...any suggestions for where to take this story are more than welcome ! THanks for reading and, as ever, for the feedback, which makes it all worthwhile.
1. Chapter 1

4

**1.**

'Ruth'. He kneels down in front of her, hand stretched out. 'Ruth', he repeats softly, 'give me the gun.' She doesn't seem to have heard him. 'Give me the gun', he repeats more firmly. She doesn't move, as if frozen by an invisible force. So he takes the gun from her, in one slow, smooth movement, and quickly ejects the charger. He hands the weapon over to Ros, who he instinctively knows is at his side, his eyes never leaving Ruth's face. 'There's a car waiting to take us back to the Grid', he continues, in the same low, soothing voice. 'You'll need to be debriefed. And then…'

'I killed him', she breaks in tonelessly.

'Yes. You did.'

'I mean, I _actually_ killed a man.'

Her voice – flat, devoid of emotion – worries him. 'Yes. You did. Ruth…' On an impulse he grabs her hands. 'Look at me'. She stares at him blankly, pupils dilated with shock. 'You saved my life, Ruth. And Ros' too. Without you…' His voice breaks but he forces himself to remain calm, composed, and collected. 'Come on, let's go', he commands. She gets up slowly, like an automaton, and lets him lead her to the waiting car. He signals to Ros to come with them, all the while holding on to Ruth, hoping to inject some warmth and strength into her. At Thames House he sits with her throughout the debriefing – his heart constricting at her recounting of the terrible events of that day: the tip they had about a white supremacist cell's plan to assassinate the head of a Muslim state, the hastily organised storming of their hide-out, Harry and Ros taking the lead, Ruth gripped with a sudden intuition that they were walking into a trap and following them there despite Harry's strict orders to stay on the Grid, the gunfight, Ruth grabbing a weapon abandonned on the floor and firing shot after shot after shot….She tells the fact, without emotions, in a flat, matter-of fact way, which is belied by her obviously trembling fingers.

After the debriefing, they walk back to the Grid, Harry and Ros going over what is to be done next, Ruth next to them, unable to utter a word. As Ros leaves them in his office, he turns to Ruth, gesturing to the sofa. 'Ruth. Sit down'. She looks up. 'Do you want to talk about it?', he asks kindly, groping for a way to reach to her and break through her defences. She shakes her head almost violently. 'No. No. I don't. I….Could I possibly go home now? An early night and….I'll be fine. I'll take a cab and….'

'No way', he says more sharply than he intended. 'I'll drive you back.' She's about to speak and he raises his hand. 'That's not up for discussion, Ruth.' She rises obediently, her body language mechanical, almost robotic, as they make their way to his car. She doesn't say anything as she settles in; she remains utterly silent as the dark rainy streets of London file through the car window; he can feel the tension in her, palpable, a torrent of controlled emotions which she will not allow to run and break through. He knows, for having been through this himself, that the walls, sooner or later will crumble down, and he'd much rather be there when it happens to her.

So he follows her inside as she fumbingly opens the door to her drab safe house. He hasn't been here once since she moved in, all those months ago, and his heart sags at the sight of the blank walls and cheap furniture. 'I'll make you some tea', he says, in as light-hearted a tone as he can muster. Briefly he remembers that moment, long ago, when he made her some tea, the day before she had to disappear…he forces his hands to do their job without slowing down. He hopes that she doesn't remember. He looks at her and frowns. 'Ruth. Are you not…are you not going to take off your coat?'

'My coat?' Ah, yes. Sorry. I was…' She shrugs out of the garnment and leads them to the living room. She sits as far away from him as she can, clutching her mug of hot, sweet tea with both hands. Silence sets in, long, tense, awful really. Somehow he has to break her, in order to help her to rebuild her shattered sense of self, but he doesn't know how to. With any other field officer, he would do it. But with her, so close and yet so far, when they are still in a limbo of will they/won't they….

But she preempts him. 'I'd never thought of myself as someone who could kill another person', she says unemotionally. 'I mean, I had to go through basic fire arm training but…being a desk agent I never thought I would….'

'What did you feel?' He asks gently. She stares at him blankly. 'When you saw the gun lying on the ground. When you saw Ros and me being….attacked. What made you do it?' He knows, from experience, that she has no choice but to relive the scene to purge herself from it, and he would like nothing more than hold her in his arms while she does that, but he knows he can't do that.

She turns away from him. How can she possibly tell him what she felt, when she saw him, yet again, at the mercy of yet another aspiring terrorist…how can she possibly describe the sheer terror of losing him, of watching him die….how can she explain how eerily similar the vision of his potential death was to the actual vision of George's collapsing on the ground….'I didn't think. I don't know how I felt', she lies, unconvincing to her own ears.

'Ruth…'

But his kindness is more than she can bear. 'Please Harry….I can't talk about it…'s different from you…you've done this many times. You can deal with its aftermath. But me…..' She begins to shake. In one quick, smooth move, he crosses the room and sits next to her on the sofa, his hands on her shoulders. 'I have a confession to make', he tells her in a low voice. 'Something about me…something which I know you won't like.' He takes a deep breath. 'Two years ago….I was in the underground. Someone was following me, and I knew him to be a hired assassin. I also knew he was out to get me. I lured him into a gents toilet….and I killed him.' She stiffens under his hands, but doesn't move away, just looks at his face, his eyes, his mouth. He continues, painfully, 'I didn't kill him in the heat of the moment, but in cold blood. Preemptively. And afterwards, I boarded the train, and went to work. To anyone, Ros, the DG whom I saw that morning, Malcolm….to all of them, I seemed calm, in control. Ruthless. But that night…and many other nights after that…I had nightmares. I couldn't sleep.' He gives her a wry, sad smile. 'One never gets used to it, Ruth, however awful the target, however entitled one is to defend one's life. Never. Not unless one is a psychopath.'

She rest her hand on his wrists, aware of the warmth and solid softness of his fingers on her shoulders, of how close they are, of the delicate and sensitive line of his mouth, of the ragged sound of their breaths. 'Stay with me tonight, Harry', she asks, astounded with herself. 'Please… I don't want to be alone. I don't want to think of death or…'. She looks away. _I want you_, she wants to say, _I need you to hold me, and I need to feel that you care, I'm tired of lying to myself, and pretending that there's nothing between us…tonight of all nights…I need to feel you against me, in me…to know that you are alive, and that you love me…._And yet she can't bring herself to saying it. 'I don't want to sleep alone', she says instead.

His eyes widen, searching hers to make sure that he fully understands what she is asking. And he sees no uncertainty there, no hesitation; what he sees, he thinks, is the desperate need for a human touch, any touch, at any price. He knows that look, for having seen it so many times in the mirror after a kill. 'You don't know what you are asking for', he says flatly, more incisively than he would have liked.

'I do!', she protests, any remnant of dignity crushed under the weight of her solitude and of her need for him.

'No you don't', he says harshly. 'I know what it's like….God knows. In my younger days, especially after my divorce….I'd go to bars. Brothels. Anywhere I could find a woman, any woman, to make me feel alive, to make me forget.' She jerks away from him, aghast as his bluntless. 'But it's not…it's _you_ I…'

'No, it's not', he counters. 'It's….call it whatever you want. Adrenaline. Wanting to prove that you are alive. That there is more to life than death….I fully understand, and God knows I am in no position whatsoever to make any judgement. But what I also know is that afterwards….you feel awful. Disgusted with yourself, with whomever you ended up bedding for the night….And I won't be party to that anymore, Ruth. Not with anyone. Especially not with you', he adds under his breath, willing her to read the respect and the love underneath the rejection.

Her face drains itself of its colour. That he should misjudge her so badly….She rises from the sofa and moves to the window, as far from him as possible. 'I'm sorry', she says stiffly, desperately trying to hold on to her self-control. 'I don't know what came over me. You're right. It's….anyway, you'd better go. I'll be fine anyway.'

Watching her compose herself, he is overcome by the dreadful feeling that he may have got it totally, completely wrong. 'Ruth, I….'

'Please, Harry. I'm very tired and…I need to be alone right now.' _From saying you want him to saying you want to be alone, in 2 mns flat…well done Ruth, very convincing…._she berates herself.

He hesitates. 'If you're sure…'

'I'm sure', she states clearly, firmly this time, with no trace of doubt in her voice.

He gets up and makes his way to the door. 'I didn't thank you properly', he says haltingly, his hand on the door handle. 'For saving my life…'

'It's nothing Harry', she dismisses him. 'I'd have done the same for anyone else. And so would you, so please don't mention it.' And go, please go, she begs him inwardly.

She shuts the door behind him and listens to the fading sound of his footsteps, of the car engine rumbling away, of the clear, cold night….sliding down on the floor, her back against the wall, a knot of pain twisting her guts, her eyes utterly dry.


	2. Chapter 2

4

**Shock 2**

'Hi Malcolm.'

Malcolm whips around, almost dropping his shopping bag. 'Harry? What….what are you doing here? You know we're not supposed…Is everything alright? '

Harry smiles wryly, sadly, touched by the other man's concern. 'YEs. Well, sort of. You look well. Malcolm…why have you not returned any of my calls? Any of my emails? Please don't' tell me it's because contacts between ex members of the service and current members are not allowed.'

The other man looks away. 'I was worried you'd pull me back in.'

'Malcolm! I'd never have done that!', Harry says, wounded by his friend's lack of trust. 'I did not want you to go, but I always respected your decision and…'

Malcolm shakes his head. 'No, it's not that. But to see you, to hear news about the others…I needed to get away from it all. Properly.' He places his hand on Harry's arm. 'Harry, did…did we lose anyone in the explosion? I heard about it on the news but…..'

'Ros got injured. Very badly. She's fine now.'

'And the others? How are they doing?'

Harry sighs. 'As well as one can expect really….'

Malcolm waits for a few seconds then asks, softly, 'And Ruth?'

And this time it's Harry's turn to look away. 'Well. It's…complicated.'

'Ah. Harry, shall we take this inside? It's not that I don't want to talk to you right now but frankly I'd rather not do this in view of the neighbours…'

As they go in and while Malcolm makes some tea, Harry takes note of his surroundings – the tiny, and tidy house full of books, a room off the kitchen with what looks to be an abundance of cables and various bits of equipment….It occurs to him that in all those years he's never been here; and yet, had been asked to describe what Malcolm's house looked like, he would have given a pretty accurate picture…_What does my house say about me, _he muses inwardly, _that I am hardly ever there, that I like antiques, and that I don't give much more away…._They settle at the kitchen table, content to be in each other's company. At long last Malcolm breaks the silence. 'Why are you here?' he asks gently.

Harry sighs. 'I miss you. I miss your quirks, your integrity…your take on things. Don't worry, I am not trying to make you come back. But….'

'But for all that you always said that one doesn't have friends in our jobs…you and I were friends, weren't we?' Malcolm says. 'Well, for what it's worth; I miss you too. And Ruth', he adds hesitantly, noticing the shadow on Harry's face. 'HArry, what's going on with Ruth?

'You mean with me and Ruth….God. Where do I start?'

'Given that this is the reason you are here', Malcolm cuts in shrewdly, 'I'd have thought you would have prepared some sort of opening….'

'Ah. But you see, where she is concerned, I seem to lose all my good sense', Harry says sadly. He looks up at his friend. 'We used to be friends, she and I. But over the last few weeks….we had an operation going wrong. I nearly got killed. Ruth was there. Don't ask me why, it's a long story . But she shot one of the terrorists and saved my life…..afterwards…' He stops, acutely embarrassed. He thinks of Malcolm as a friend but still… 'Well. I drove her home. She…' – he clears his throat – 'she wanted me to stay with her. Overnight.'

'So?' Malcolm asks, puzzled by Harry's obvious discomfort. 'Ah. _That _kind of staying. So what's the problem then? You two finally made…'

'What do you mean, what's the problem?' Harry asks testily. 'She wanted….well, you know. But I couldn't. Not like that. I mean, you know what it's like after you've killed someone, you want to f..k – sorry, you want to have sex with anyone who happens to be there…But I couldn't do that, not anymore. Not with her, so I said no, and….'

'Actually, I don' know what it's like', Malcolm says drily, 'first because I haven't killed anyone, and second, because even if I had, I frankly doubt I would want to…anyway.' He pauses, and then, looking at Harry straight in the eye, asks, in sheer disbelief, his tone of voice increasing in irritation, 'are you telling me that you thought Ruth would have asked this of _anyone_ other than you? That you as much as told her that, and turned her away? My God Harry, what's wrong with you?'

'What do you mean, what's wrong with me! I did the honorable thing! I I said no because I knew she would regret it in the morning, and I didn't want to take advantage of her! Anyway, that was three months ago, and since then, it's been…horrible. I tried talking to her but…she apologised, said she'd not been thinking straight… And now….She's so…polite. So formal. So correct. I can't stand it. She doesn't barge into my office anymore. She always knocks. I can't stand it. She asked for a transfer. To GCH, for all places.' He gulps his tea down, partly because he needs the comfort of the hot, sweet drink, partly to hide his distress from MAlcolm.

'You fool', Malcolm says slowly, 'You've loved this woman to distraction for years. You never got over her. And when she finally finds the courage to take the plunge with you, you treat it as an offer of a one night stand and turn her down. You stupid old fool.' He shakes his head.

HArry slams his mug back on the table, stung. 'What else was I supposed to do?'

'You were supposed to tell her that you love her; that you want nothing more than be with her, but would rather take things a little bit more slowly, and make love to her without the shadow of death hanging over you. You were supposed to court her, take her out to diner, do all those things that people do when…oh how do I know anyway, I'm just an old, repressed bachelor, and…' He takes a deep breath. 'For God's sake, Harry. You know…when I met up with her that day….she asked me 'how is he, Malcolm?'' Not, 'how is everyone, and how is Harry' but 'how is he?' And it was obvious to me that she meant you; and clearly she knew that she didn't need to explain whom she met. So you see… She may have been happy in Cyprus but I bet a part of her has always loved you. Always.'

'What can I do?', Harry asks, utterly lost, and bewildered, unable to believe that he could have had one shot at happiness had he handled that disastrous evening differently.

'When does she go back to GCHQ?'', Malcolm asks.

Harry sighs. 'Tomorrow. I offered to organise a goodbye do. She wouldn't have it.'

'Tomorrow? _Tomorrow?_ So right now, she's packing her stuff up and clearing her desk on the Grid.' Malcolm gets up, and grabs Harry's coat. 'Go there .Go back to the Grid and tell her…tell her how you feel. Do it now.'

'But what if she…'

'At least you will have told her. At least you'll have shown her that you were willing to fight for her. Come on. Go. Now.'

Harry gets up, humbled by his friend's generosity. 'Thanks', he whispers. 'I needed…'

'A kick in the right place. Yes, I know. Well, that's what friends are here for, aren't they.'

On the doorstep, Harry turns back to Malcolm. 'Let's not lose touch', he pleads. 'I promise I won't try to get you to come back, but please let's not…'

Malcolm nods, throat tight suddenly, moved by the sheen of tears in Harry's eyes.


	3. Chapter 3

3

**Shock 3**

**1.**

There is no reason why she should still be on the Grid – other than her foolish hope that Harry will turn up and, in a sudden declaration of love, beg her not to go. She sighs. It's 10pm, and all her colleagues have left. The Grid is plunged in darkness, save the glow of her desk lamp and the lights in Harry's office. She surveys her meagre personal belongings, all in one cardboard box – the summary of her ten months here since she got back from Cyprus. She knows that she should go, and resign herself to the prospect of GCHQ. She knows that she cannot – simply _cannot_ – carry on. The last three months have been horrendous. She very nearly resigned, after that disastrous night. She didn't of course - partly because she needed to earn a living, partly because a part of her couldn't bear to be apart from Harry. And yet…she hopes she will never, ever again experience such feelings of humiliation. The memories of that night, when she threw herself at him, only to be rejected, are seared in her mind. When she stops and remembers that moment, she can feel the red flush of burning shame creeping upon her neck. So for the last three months she has tried, as hard as she could, not to remember, not to reminisce, and to do her job well, correctly, conscientiously.

She's got to give it to him: he did try to put things right between them. She can remember that Monday morning, a few days after that night, as clearly as if it were yesterday. He called her into his office, late one evening, and asked her, solicitously, if she was alright. _You've been…tired lately, not quite yourself. Is everything alright?_ She remembers the way he could not bring himself to looking at her, and fidgeted with his pen, his watch – everything he could lay his hands on. _I'm OK Harry, honestly…just a bit tired, that's all. Oh, OK_, he said. And she remembers the way he cleared his throat, embarrassed beyond description. _About the other night_, he said…_I don't want to talk about it_, she had cut in, _I'm sorry I embarrassed you. I thought that…anyway, don't worry about it, it was just a moment of…madness, it won't happen again. _ She hadn't looked at him then, she couldn't bear it, and instead had asked him, politely, whether there was anything else he wanted to talk to her about. There wasn't, so he had dismissed her.

For a while, I really thought I could do it, she tells herself bleakly as she is trying to locate a few more paperclips to tidy away in her leaving box. I really thought I could handle my feelings for him….But she couldn't – not really, not with him being so formal, and polite, and curteous, and forbidding. And so one day, in despair, she put in her transfer request. She doesn't want to think about the way he reacted when he received the form. By that point, he was so cold with her that she could hardly bear to be in the same room as him. _You're making a mistake_, he had told her bluntly. _You've always hated GCHQ. Why on earth do you want to go back?_ _A change of scene_, she had said, inwardly begging him to press her, knowing too that she had closed the door on him, firmly, after that night. _I need a change of scene, to be somewhere when there is no risk at all that I will kill someone and…._She'd stopped then, abruptly, worried she had said too much. He had softened then, and asked her, with the velvety voice he sometimes has, in those moments when his innate kindness takes over, _Ruth, would it help if you saw the psychologist? To talk about what happened when you fired that gun and…_She remembers bristling then, and cutting him off. _I don't need the psychologist, I need to be away from here. From…._From you, she had meant, and clearly he had understood, signed off on her form, and offered, half-heartedly, to sort out a goodbye do. He'd sounded relieved when she'd said no, and told her that if this is what she wanted, he would expedite her request. A week, he'd said, tops, and you can be out of here.

Her eyes ache under the pressure of unshed tears. She can't quite believe that soon, in a few minutes, she will be out of this place, which has meant so much to her over the years. And yet she knows that she has no choice, and that if she is to find some measure of happiness, not even with someone else but with herself, she has to leave.

She has run out of things to do and bits of stationery to pack up. She throws one last glance around, lingering on the light in Harry's office, and picks up her box, wearily, tiredly.

She nearly drops it, heart hammering in her chest.

'Harry? What are you doing here? It's nearly 10:30pm and…'

He doesn't look well. There's a sheen of sweat on his brow. His eyes have a strange, desperate, hurried look. 'Thank God you're still here', he almost pants. 'I raced up the stairs, I was worried you'd gone and…'

She slowly puts her box down on her desk, hands shaking, not quite knowing what to do as he has fallen silent. The ball is in his court really, and she is waiting for him to lob it back to her.

'Don't go', he blurts out.

'Harry, I….I filled the form, I'm due to start there tomorrow morning, it's…'

He walks to her desk and places a hand on hers. 'Please. We need to talk. About…' _About us_, he wants to say but one last vestige of cowardice and ineptitude pulls him back. 'About that night. I think I misjudged you badly. I'd hate to think that you would leave on a misunderstanding…' He tightens his grip on her. 'I…without you….I'm lost. And…' He knows that he is blabbering, but her clear blue eyes, who are looking at him without seeing through to him, intimidate him.

She stiffens away from him. 'We've been through this before. I'm sorry about what I said. What I asked you to do. I…it's not like me and….as for being lost without me, you'll find another analyst. No one is irreplaceable. Besides…'

'Another _analyst_?_'_, he cuts her off. 'Is that what you think? That I'm worried about losing an analyst? My God, Ruth, I…'

She grabs her box, not hearing him, desperate to leave this place behind and to start the long, painful, drawn out process of getting over him. 'Goodbye, Harry.'

He steps away from her, as if burnt, and watches her leave helplessly. As the door to the Grid soundlessly rotates shut behind her stiff retreating back, he sinks down in her chair. _It's over_, he tells himself bleakly. _You've blown it, and it's well and truly over_. _You had your chances, God knows you did but this time…._He closes his eyes, utterly defeated. When he saw her slowly packing her things, so late at night, he was gripped with an irrational hope that she was waiting for him, for one last chance to make it right. The light of her desk lamp on her skin, the glow of her hair, the soft and delicate hands with their long fingers….the curve of her nape, the shape of her body underneath her clothes…he hasn't decided whether her clothes are dowdy or hippy, or a mixture of both. Given that, since that fateful night, he's mostly dreamt about peeling those clothes off her, he doesn't care. He runs his hands on her desk, as if to absorb some part of her. But before his brain can register what his fingers tell him, the Grid's revolving doors open behind him.

'Harry?', he hears her say in a small, hesitant voice. 'Harry…have you been crying?'


	4. Chapter 4

5

**Note sure whether to make this the last chapter or whether to add one. In a way it could really stop here…anyway thanks for the comments, which make it all worthwhile!**

**HRFan**

**Shock 4.**

Her words, softly spoken, make him aware of the bitter wetness of tears in his eyes and on his eyelashes. And he no longer has the will and strength to fight, and brush her question away. 'So it appears', he says instead in a low voice, with infinite lassitude.

'But Harry, why…'

'What's going on?', he asks at the same time. 'Why have you come back?'

'My purse…' she gestures at her desk.

He looks down, and notices her black purse by his hands. Wordlessly he picks it up and hands it over to her, bone-tired. She reaches out, and their hands touch, and it reminds him of that moment, years ago, on a late night bus – another brief contact, another missed opportunity because of his fears and limitations…

And suddenly, he's had enough. This time, he doesn't let go of her hand, but instead gets up and faces her. 'I don't want you to go, because I love you. It's as simple as that really. I've loved you for years. As you know.' He shakes his head. 'And you know, the worst of it is…'

'Do you?', she interrupts.

'Do I what?'

'Love me'.

Her eyes are suspiciously bright, and incredulous, and she's let her purse drop on the floor. 'Of course I do, Ruth. Didn't you know it? I made my feelings so clear, after Jo died.'

'Yes but…after that…' She pauses, trying to collect her thoughts, unable to believe that happiness might be within her grasp. 'I tried to comfort you, on the roof', she says sadly. 'The day of the hotel explosion…I put my hand on your arm and you brushed me aside. And three months ago…that night…you rejected me too. I tried to explain but you wouldn't listen. I felt cheapened and humiliated', she adds bitterly.

'Oh Ruth', he whispers. 'I'm so sorry. So, so sorry. I never meant to do that.'

'So why did you do it, then?', she asked painfully, 'It'd taken me years, and killing someone, to get to that point so why didn't you take what I was offering?'

He brings her hands to his lips, noting that she hasn't told him she loves him, and yet deriving comfort from the fact that she is not pulling away from him. 'What did you want from me that night?', he asks gently.

She looks at him, and feels the slight tremor in his fingers, and she knows that she owes him to be honest with him, just as he has, finally, been honest with her. 'I wanted…comfort. Reassurance.' She can sense him stiffen underneath her. 'And your love', she says at last. 'When I saw you in that room…' Her voice breaks. 'I was terrified. And then he went for you…' Her eyes are glistening with tears. 'I still have nightmares about that night, you know. I dream that I'm losing you, that you're gone, and I haven't even told you that I love you, and…'

Wordlessly, he craddles her head in his hands and kisses her eyelids, his lips following the trace of her tears down her cheeks. He hovers above her mouth, waiting for her to acquiesce. She weaves her arms around his back. 'I wanted to feel you', she whispers, 'I wanted…I _needed_ to feel that you were alive, to…to feel your warmth…do you understand?'

His soft sigh brushes against her lips 'Forgive me…please forgive me for misunderstanding you so completely. I…..All of that..it didn't occur to me, you see. I thought you wanted us to be friends and nothing else. And also….' He rests his forehead against hers. 'I didn't want to make love with you like that. I've thought about it a lot, you know… the two of us, together…intimate. But I want it to be with joy and love and commitment…not after something so horrendous as death. Especially for the first time…'

She smiles at him, a teasing, playful glint in her eyes. 'Oh really? You've thought about it?'

He smiles back, his mouth still tantalisingly close to hers. 'Oh yes. More often than I could possibly tell you…' Her eyes darken, her breathing quicken, and he gives in to temptation. Slowly, he brushes her lips with his, without applying any pressure, waiting for her to open up to him. When she does, holding him so tightly that he can feel every curve of her body against his, he gives out a long sigh – the sight of someone who has been looking for home for years without realising it and finally found it. His hands are roaming on her back, welding her hips to his, until the pull of desire becomes so strong that it can no longer be ignored. He pulls away from her without breaking contact. 'I want you', he says simply. 'More than I have ever wanted anyone. And I love you so much….I can't even imagine what it would be like, to live without loving you.'

'I feel the same…I always have really.' She strokes his cheek lovingly. 'Harry.'

'Yes?'

'It's close to 11pm and I'm starving…shall we…?'

He bursts out in laughter. 'Let's grab something from the kebab van down the road. And then I'll have you driven home. But tomorrow, I'd like to take you to diner. Properly. If that's alright?' he asks hesitantly, still unsure of himself.

She reaches up and kisses him. 'Definitely alright.'

He plays with her fingers. 'You know….we don't need to rush, I mean, we've waited so long, it doesn't matter whether we…but I want you to know…I don't want us to..' He stops helplessly.

She smiles gently, made aware of how difficult it is for him, still, to express his feelings clearly. 'I understand', she says softly.

'You do?'

'Yes. What you mean is that you love me, you want to make love with me, you now see that I love you too, and are entirely happy to wait until we make love until I am absolutely ready, though neither of us is getting any younger so perhaps we could try not to wait for another three years.'

He chuckles. 'How on earth did you manage to read that off my thoroughly inarticulate statement?', he asks, genuinely impressed.

'I'm an analyst. Besides…', she grows serious. 'I understand you. I think.'

'That you do' he murmurs in a strangled voice. 'Come on, let's go and get something to eat.'

She picks her purse up. 'Oh shoot!'

'What?'

'I'm supposed to start at GCHQ tomorrow!'

'Do you want to go back? No, I thought not. Don't worry. I'll sort it out.'

'But they'll be really angry! We can't just…'

'We can', he says firmly, 'besides they owe me a few favours.'

She shakes her head. 'God. The world you inhabit…movers and shakers…'

She weaves her arm in his as they leave the Grid. 'Harry?'

'Mmmm?', he asks in pure contentment.

'I haven't given you my response.'

'Uh?'

'About this waiting/not waiting thing.'

He stops walking and turns to her. 'You don't _have _to give me a response', he insists, 'I don't want you to feel under any kind of pressure, or…'

'Which day is it tomorrow?'

He stares at her, dumbfounded. 'What?'

'Thursday. Tomorrow is Thursday. Good.'

Now he's lost. 'Good? How? I mean. What does the fact that tomorrow is Thursday have to do with us…'

She beams at him, with a wide, open smile which melts his heart. 'I always change the sheets on Thursdays.'

'You always…ah. I see', he says slowly, hope filling his eyes.

'Is it alright? I mean, I don't want _you _to feel under any pressure and…'

He silences her with a kiss so deep, so thorough, that when she comes up for air, her head is spinning. 'Tomorrow', he says hoarsely. 'God I love you.'

'I love you too.'

They smile at each other, happy, at peace with themselves and one another, the retreating sound of their footsteps echoing, in perfect harmony, down the long corridors of Thames House.


	5. Chapter 5

7

**WARNING: This is the M RATED final chapter for the fic 'Under the Shock' –I try to show how two people, whose long relationship so far has been essentially chaste for all its depth and intensity, can move towards intimacy only the day after they have openly acknowledged their love for each other. I also want to make sense of why they feel they can move so quickly, suddenly: it's not just about not wasting more time. NOt sure that makes sense…anyway, you'll see. Thanks for reading!**

**PS: of course this story line has become kind of irrelevant given the start of season 9. Then again, you can read this bit as what might happen between them, say at the end of the season, if the writers get their act together! **

**Thursday**

'More wine?', he asks, admiring the way the candlenight moves and plays on her skin.

She smiles. 'No thanks. Better not.' She looks around her, trying to ignore the insistent flutter of her nerves as the evening wears on, and as the moment approaches where they will leave the restaurant, and walk to his car, and go to her house…'What made you choose this particular restaurant?', she asks, out of genuine curiosity but also to fill the silence that seems to be settling, uncomfortably, between them.

His eyes soften. 'I love the food. And the atmosphere here is…intimate, without being suggestive.'

She blushes and looks away. 'Tell me about…tell me about your time in the army', she blurts out, desperate for something to say.

He almost chokes on his wine. 'My…my time in the army? Well. Given that you've undoubtedly seen my file you know more or less as much about it as I do!'

'I did not!', she protests, vaguely affronted.

He stares at her. 'Do you mean to tell me that you never, ever, broke into the Service's archives to look at my file?'

'Never', she says emphatically, glad of the distraction.

'Oh. Sorry then. BUt…what about the others? Adam, Tom, Zoe…'

She fidgets with her knife. 'Ah. Well. Yes. But that was different.'

He raises his eyebrows, while signalling the waiter for the bill. 'How so?', knowing he is being obtuse but needing to hear her say it.

'You know' she says.

'Not really. Indulge me', he mock-commands.

'Well', she replies, feeling mildly flirtatious, and enjoying the feeling, 'you will be relieved to know that I wasn't in love with them.'

'What, not even Zoe?', he teases as they rise to get their coats.

'Not even Zoe, you conceited man…', she mocks gently.

On the way to his car he wraps his arm around her shoulders, drawing her against him, relishing the feel of her body against his, forbidding himself to think about what awaits them when they get to her house.

In the car, neither one of them says a word. After an eternity and the shortest time on earth they find themselves walking up the steps to her front door, inside her house, rid of their coats and jackets, the sound of their breathing heavier, ladden with unsaid fears and hopes.

She leads him to her living room. 'Would you…would you like some coffee?', she croaks, turning away from him. 'Or some tea. Actually I have some whisky as well, I got a bottle of Lagavullin yesterday…I thought you might like it. It's 18 years old, the man in the shop said that…' She is babbling, and yet can't help herself. 'I have wine too if you prefer, though the one we had over diner was so good that…' She stops, unable to keep this up any longer and forces herself to look at him. He is standing so close to her that she can see the lines on his face, the changing darkening color of his eyes…He is simply staring at her, drinking her with his eyes, with a look of such intensity on his face as to almost burn her. 'Harry', she whispers.

He raises his hand. She quivers in anticipation of his touch, her body reacting before he's even touched her. 'Ruth….', he murmurs as his fingers rest on her cheek…'Ruth. We don't have to do anything tonight, you know that, don't you? If you'd rather wait…if it's too soon ….'

'No, I _don't_ want to wait. And it's not too soon. I mean, we've waited for so long and…It's just….' She swallows. 'I've never been very good at this', she whispers. 'I mean, I may not have looked at your file but I know about your reputation, I mean your _past _reputation – you don't have it anymore but…anyway, I know you're very…experienced, and I'm not. I mean, I haven't had that many….'

'Ruth'

'…lovers, and those I had were…well, let's say that on the whole, they never gave me the impression I was setting them on fire, so you see…'

'Ruth.'

'…so you see, I'm very very scared I'm going to…disappoint you, and it's precisely because we've waited for so long, and what if you decide it _wasn't_ worth the wait and…'

He swears softly underneath his breath and does the one and only thing he can think of – the one and only think he _wants _to do to silence her. Mid sentence, he gently but firmly clamps his mouth on hers. She gasps with shock, but soon opens up to him, submerged by his hands roaming on her back and settling on her hips, a soft moan escaping from her as he ravishes her mouth.

After a long, long while, he breaks their kiss away. 'Ruth. You may not have looked at my file but at least you know that I'm 56. Not in the flower of youth, to put it mildly. And whatever my _past_ reputation may have been, well, as it happens, I haven't done this in a very, very long time. Eight years, to be precice.' Her eyes widen. 'Yes', he continues wryly, 'Eight years. So believe me, I have as much of a claim as you to be scared. More so, I'd say. And I _am _scared, to tell you the truth, more than I ever thought I would be.'

'You could have fooled me' she retorts gently, beginning to relax.

'Yes, well…I'm pretty good at…controlling my feelings. At hiding them. But believe me, right now…there's a part of me that wants to take you upstairs and make love to you all night; and there's another part that is terrified I won't be able to.'

'Oh. I see. So. What do we do now then?', she asks straightforwardly.

He laughs weakly. 'I think….if that's alright with you…I think that we should go upstairs, and lie down on your bed, and…take it from there.'

She smiles at him, her first real, open, full smile this evening. 'Sounds good. Let's go.'

She leads him upstairs by the hand and into her bedroom. She sinks on her bed kicking her shoes off, and he does the same, lying down next to her with a grateful sigh. 'Come here' he invites her into the circle of his arms. She relaxes against him, enjoying the feel of his body pressed against hers. She raises her head towards him, meeting his hungry soft lips halfway. Slowly, lingeringly, taking his time, he brushes his mouth against her, letting his tongue circle hers, lightly at first then more deeply, relishing the waves of heat which begin to radiate from her skin. She arches backward and he moves down the curve of her neck, lingering in the hollow of her throat and shoulder. She moves her hands underneath his shirt and strokes his back and flanks, murmuring her delight. With shaky fingers , he starts unbuttoning her top. 'Is this alright?', he asks tentatively, his voice husky with desire. With a radiant smile, guides him down her body, and takes off his shirt. Before he can start stroking kissing her, she frames his face in her hands. 'Lie down on me', she whispers. 'I need..I need to feel you.' He complies, the feel of her breasts on his chest fuelling his arousal. He raises himself on his forearms and resumes his exploration of her mouth, with more urgency, more need, than before. 'I want to see you', he rasps in between kisses, 'all of you.' She doesn't respond, so he looks at her. 'What's wrong, sweetheart?'

She doesn't look away but her eyes, suddenly, are filled with fear and uncertainty. 'I…I'm not…'

'You're beautiful. I love you. You're driving me crazy. God. I want you', he says nakedly, but pausing in his caresses to give her space and time. 'But only if you want me too. We don't have to…'

She shakes her head. She slides from under him, and he lets her go, sensing that she needs to do this by herself somehow. Her hands are trembling so much that she can hardly unhook her bra; when she's done, he thinks that she will stop and let him take over, but she doesn't. In fact, quickly, with a look of scared determination on her face, she undresses herself completely, and lies back down on the bed, fully exposed to his gaze, as if to say, _there, this is me, this is that you have been waiting for for years…was it worth it, was it really worth it_?

He contemplates her, taking in her large soft breasts with her distended peaks, the fleshy curves of her stomach, the wide hips and long legs, her skin gleaming in the dim light of the room, the dark patch of intimate hair covering her feminity. His eyes fill with tears, and slowly, unhurriedly, he undresses himself fully, and lies next to her. He doesn't need to say tell her what he wants her to do. She half sits up, raised on an elbow, and it is her turn to allow herself this silent, arousing discovery of his solid, stocky body, moved by the scars of old and recent battles and the sight of his obvious desire for her.

He grabs her hand and places it on his chest. 'I crave you, Ruth…don't you see? To feel you….' She's started stroking him in long, loving movements and he can no longer speak, utterly focused on the waves of pleasure washing over him, but he wants to give as much as receive so he soon shifts their positions so that he can deepen his exploration of her body. He brushes his lips over her breasts and gently captures their peaks into his warm, moist mouth, at the same time as she captures his manhood into her soft palm. Their moans of pleasure combine in a fevered duet, reaching higher and he lowers himself and gently parts her legs, the unspoken question in his eyes meeting a pleading yes. He moves his mouth, parting his lips, over her feminine core, parting her intimate folds with his tongue, her scent filling the air and hardening him to the point of pain, his fingers roving over her nipples.

Suddenly she stops him. 'Too much?', he asks brokenly, on the brink of climax himself. 'No', she rasps 'but…I want you inside me. Now, Harry…please?'

He doesn't need telling twice. With a deep, long sigh, half a cry really, he enters her slowly, wanting to feel her every step of the way, until he reaches his destination – the core of her womanhood. He raise himself on his arms, fully, and looks down at her, dishevelled, rivulets of sweat running down her temples, her eyes dark blue with arousal. He begins to move, in short, shallow movements, her hips matching his every stroke and urging him on, and soon he lets his body take over, his movements deeper and longer, her hands digging in his back, her moans turning into cries as she clenches herself around him, echoed by his long shout as he convulses in long repeated bursts of fulfillment.

He collapses on top of her, struggling to catch his breath, and rolls over on his side, dragging her to him, letting their bodies gently separate at their cores. 'I love you', he pants. 'For so long…'

She burrows herself against him, tasting his sweat with her mouth. 'I love you too….' She traces uphazard patterns on his torso and back. 'Harry…'

'Mmm?'

'How did you know?'

'Know what?' he murmurs lazily, limbs heavy with satisfaction.

'It was like…you knew exactly what to do, when to do it…but not in a mechanical way…if you see what I mean.'

He draws away from her without breaking contact, the better to see her face. He smiles tenderly, touched by how easily embarrassed she gets. 'Ah. Well. You see….I have thought about this, us, together like this, for such a long time…'

'You mean, fantasized? But you never gave any sign that….I mean, I knew how you felt…that you loved me. At least for a while I did. But I never knew that you wantedme so much.'

'After you left…I would get into the Grid in the morning, and look towards your desk, and picture you there. With your hair pulled back. Your lively lovely eyes…and I would wonder what it would have been like to run my hands through your hair, to see what your eyes look like when you're aroused….' He pauses, and then says, in a low, almost strained voice. 'At night….the nights were hard. I couldn't stand being in my house. The loneliness…I'd think of you. I'd imagine you there, cooking with me in the kitchen, reading the newspapers in the living room…in my bed….And tonight….well, tonight was the culmination of all of that.'

She strokes his face. 'You never said….when I got back. How hard it'd been for you.'

'Of course not, how could I….'

She kisses his hand. 'I thought of you a lot too. When we said goodbye, on that dock, you wouldn't let me go, do you remember? Afterwards…I could still smell your aftershave on me. And I wondered too what it'd been like to make love…'

He crushes her to him. 'Let's not waste more time. Ruth, let's…let's always cherish each other…yes?'

She nods. 'Yes', she chokes. 'Harry…'

'Yes?'

She takes a deep breath, unsure all of a sudden of what she is about to do. 'Will you marry me?'

He goes very still, dumbfounded. 'I…'

'I mean, we couldn't be a very conventional married couple. And we' d have to be careful at work…not to let it intrude too much…but we could…'

'Yes!' he half shouts.

'You…you mean it? You're not…'

'I mean it. Oh Ruth…' He crushes his mouth to hers, bursting with happiness. 'When?' he asks urgently. 'When shall we do it?'

She laughs. 'Well. There's a bit of organising to do. Bookings, deciding how big…Let's not focus on the practicalities now', she mocks herself. 'Let's celebrate and then fix a date.'

He smiles. Celebrations are good. And as the hours while on, for while forgetting all about the alarm clock, and his phone, and his pager, he proceeds to show her exactly how he intends to wake her up in the morning, until she takes over, and demonstrates how exactly she plans to rouse him from sleep, their cries of love and pleasure echoing in the room, in the early bright rising light of the summer sun.

THE END.


End file.
